Cruciatus Animus Fabula
by Dead Poet
Summary: A series of drabbles featuring everyone's favorite tortured albino monk. Emphasis on the tortured.
1. Mutata Veste

**Author's Note: These drabbles were orginally written for a drabble challenge over at the silasadore Livejournal community. There were 15 one-word prompts listed, and I'm planning on writing a drabble for each of them, so if you enjoy these, be sure to check for updates. **

**Also, I feel it necessary to note that, contrary to my usual obsessively strict adherence to drabble conventions, the vast majority of these works are more than 100 words. But they are still short, so I'm going to call them all drabbles anyway.**

**Finally, it would behoove you, the reader, to review these little stories. The more ego-stroking I receive, the more I write. And the more I write, the more you get to read. See, reviews make everyone happy! **

He looked up into her gentle face, barely meeting her stony gaze. She did not look upon him with the warmth and affection he'd come to expect from her. No, something had changed...

Her eyes now held the worst sort of pity; her small smile was more mocking than comforting; and the words she whispered to his heart were now laced with ridicule.

Realization crashed upon him like stormy waves against the shore, and if he'd had the strength, he would have lashed out. He would have torn away her gilded halo and crushed her false wings. He would have exposed her for what she truly was--the last in a long line of betrayers.

Instead he sank down upon the pew behind him, head in hands. He should have seen this coming.

Every angel the Lord sent him turned out to be a devil in disguise.


	2. Intra Atrum

White is, traditionally, a color associated with purity and innocence, the color of angels and other heavenly beings, a representation of all things good.

It occurs to many to wonder why, then, a man so endowed with such a hue inspires so much fear. Even those who shrink away from him, who put forth great effort to avoid his presence, cannot say, for certain, _why_ they do so. There is just something about the man...

Silas does not blame them, for he understands what they do not. He knows that the white without does nothing to cover the black within.


	3. In Nomine

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."

He spoke the words that purified his purpose and prayed for strength, not to carry out the deed--that part was simple--but to maintain the sanctity of the holy act.

He swung the Discipline and felt the--

_stiff leather of the belt..._

He bit his lip, refusing to cry out. Any sound he uttered would--

_--only make things worse, anger him further..._

He clenched his fist and turned his gaze to the cross, forcing his thoughts back to the present, back to his purpose. Then he swung again.

In the name of the--

_Father! No! Please..._

Unbidden, an anguished cry escaped his lips as he stumbled and fell to his knees. Fighting back frustrated tears, he stood and swung again--

_Weak, pathetic..._

and again--

_No son of mine..._

and again--

_...an abomination!_

and again--

_...nothing more than a ghost._

He was on his knees again, though he did not remember falling. His face was streaked with tears, though he did not know when they had begun to flow.

With a heaving sob, he turned his gaze again to the cross.

_In nomine Patris, et Filli, et Spiritus Sancti._


	4. Convenire Tuus Fabricator

Eight knotted strands of rope, bound together to form a single entity. The item was eloquent in its simplicity.

He picked it up. It was heavier than it looked. Of course. Lying there on the floor it had been just eight strands of rope. But in his hands, it was much more. It was salvation.

He slowly made his way to his feet. He too felt heavy--a weary Atlas, bearing a world of sin upon his shoulders. Now, at least, he had the means to shrug.

He gave the item an experimental swing, feeling its weight, hearing the low whistle as it sliced the air. He watched as the rope came to life, seeming suddenly vicious, the knots like so many tiny fists.

He took a shuddering breath and whispered a prayer.

"Pain is good," he told himself.

He closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the rope. It was a simple action. So simple... But body refused to obey mind.

_Pain is good._

He stood frozen in purgatory, waging war with himself, pitting intellect against instinct.

_Pain is good._

A familiar, mocking voice rose from the depths to join the battle. _"You see?"_ it whispered. _"He was right all along. You are weak. Weak... Pathetic... Useless--"_

He screamed. The crows outside the window abandoned their tree in a flurry of feathers. The knots slapped against his back, taking his breath and setting his flesh afire.

It was a holocaust, searing across body and mind, leaving nothing in its wake but pain. Absolutely nothing. No voices. No visions. No thought. No feeling. Only pain.

"Pain is good," he whispered.

This time he almost smiled as he swung the Discipline.


	5. Amoris Mentiri

He saw tears falling from her swollen eyes, sliding down her bruised cheeks. He saw her turn away.

Then he closed his eyes. It was easier if he couldn't see the blows coming, if he didn't have to see the hatred in his father's eyes.

He lay perfectly still. It was easier if he didn't try to fight back, if he didn't pretend that there was any way he could escape.

He didn't move until he heard the front door slam shut. Then he made his way carefully to his feet and limped to the washroom where his mother stood, gazing with lifeless eyes at her reflection in the cracked mirror.

She knelt and held his pale battered face in her gentle hands.

"I love you," she said. "You know that, don't you?"

He didn't.

But he nodded anyway.


	6. Hortus in Hiemis

He closed his eyes and savored the biting chill of the winter wind, the sting of the cold snow upon his sandaled feet.

As he settled himself onto the icy stone bench, he almost smiled. It was a rare moment--one in which he felt entirely at peace.

He cast a leisurely gaze around the frozen garden. It was abandoned by most during the winter months. After all, what good was a garden in winter, when all it's plants lay dead or dormant, all its beauty hidden beneath the snow?

But to Silas' eyes, the garden had never looked more magnificent. Delicate icicles hung from the frozen branches of leafless trees. Frost clung to the stone wall like a strange silver moss. And over everything lay a soft blanket of snow.

He loved the snow most of all--the way it came so quiet, so soft, and gently transformed the world, covering it in perfect purity. 

Sitting in that snow-covered garden, breathing deeply of the cold, crisp air, feeling his body growing numb, he felt an odd swell of hope. If God could grace the world with such purity, then surely He could do the same for him.

Reluctantly, Silas stood. He could easily have spent the rest of the day in the garden, but he'd learned his lesson about staying out in the cold too long...

He had just begun the journey back when something anomalous caught his eye, halting his progress. There was a small area where his footsteps had disturbed the snow, revealing what lay beneath.

With a sigh, he pulled up the hood of his robe, folded his arms, and set off again at a brisk pace, suddenly eager to be back indoors.


	7. Quando Hic Excitares

His mother is smiling widely as he comes through the door and runs to hug her, his father close behind, planting a kiss on her cheek.

When he wakes up, she is screaming.

His father is smiling, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears as he pats his son warmly on the back and tells him how proud he is.

When he wakes up, his father is waiting, the sparkle in his eyes one of malice.

An angelic beauty is kissing him gently, her brown eyes warm and full of compassion as she whispers in his ear, "I love you."

When he wakes up, he is alone.


End file.
